Dark Light
by FFcrazy15
Summary: Otto's evening routine.


Dark Light

_Summary: Otto's evening routine._

**Disclaimer: I neither own the rights to the Discworld universe nor any of its associated media, derivatives or products. I do not profit from this work.**

* * *

"Hallo, I am Otto von Chriek."

"Hello, Otto," said the chairwoman with a smile, followed by the expected chorus. "Do you have something you'd like to share with us?"

Otto fidgeted with his hands. This was not something he wanted to discuss but, well, that was the whole point of the meetings. "Okay," he sighed, "so, here is ze zhing." He counted on his fingers. "I am…tventy years, zhree months, and six days clean." A smattering of applause. He gave a weak smile. The back room of Biers had grown dim as the winter sun had set outside the windows, which was just fine as far as its patrons were concerned, but the candles had been lit in the chandelier, so he could more or less see everyone, including a few, uncertain-looking newcomers. "I see ve have some new faces here today. You should be proud of yourselves. You have made a good first step."

His smile faded as he let out a sigh. "Tventy years is a long time. You newcomers, you'll find zhat ze longer you are clean, ze more you vill vant to stay so. You von't vant to start over. But," he said with a grimace, "Sometimes, it is still difficult. You all know I vork viz ze lovely Miss Saccharissa and Mr. Villiam, yes?" A few murmurs, nodding heads. "Zey are my best friends in ze vorld," Otto admitted. "Vhen I laugh, zey laugh. Vhen I cry, zey cry viz me! Every day vhen zey valk in ze front door of ze shop, viz zeir big smiles and rosy cheeks, _och, _I feel like…" He trailed off. "Like I have a home. I haff never had a home before."

"It's important to have a good support system," the chairwoman said with a nod.

"Och, zey are so supportive! Vhen I am veak zey are zere viz me, zey do not run and hide! Sometimes zey even sing viz me." Otto lowered his head miserably. "Vhich is vhy it is so hard vhen I vant to…vant to hurt zem." Even saying the words aloud made his stomach twist in shame. "Zis veek, ve vere reporting on ze big brawl in _Ze Hatchet and Entrail,_ yes? Vell, Mr. Villiam got in ze vay of a very enthusiastic man and, vell, his nose vill not look ze same from now on, I can tell you zhat!" A rumble of chuckles. "I almost could not contain myself. I felt so ashamed, I could not look him in ze face," Otto confessed. "And I could tell he knew it. He even apologized! As if it vere his fault he had a bloody nose, as if he had to protect _me! _Och, ze shame."

"Shame is not what we're here for, Otto," said the chairwoman gently. "You didn't attack him, did you?"

"No, but…"

"And you just said the _b-word_ now, without even flinching. You've made a lot of progress." Otto paused to consider this. "We can't help what we feel. What's important," said the chairwoman, looking around the circle, "is what we do _about_ it. Twenty years is nothing to sneeze at, Otto. Think about all the people, people you might never even have met, who are living happy, healthy lives right now, because you made a choice. A choice _not _to give in. That is something to be _proud_ of."

"But I shouldn't vant to hurt my friends," Otto pleaded.

"We can't control what we do or don't want, Otto. Look at it this way: do you love your friends?"

"Viz all my heart," he vowed fervently.

"Remember that. _Hold on_ to that. There was a time when you were lonely—living in an abandoned castle, without family, without _friends._ Now you have friends, a career, a life in a real community! In your darkest moment," the chairwoman said gently, "wasn't this what you wanted?"

Otto half-shrugged. "Back zhen, all I vanted vas to get out. I vould never have dreamed I could be zis happy."

"And what was it that made you want to 'get out?'"

There was a silence. The other black ribboners watched as Otto thought, his brow furrowed. At last, he spoke.

"I saw vhat I had become. And I said to myself, I said, 'Otto, no more. Not a single one more.'"

* * *

The _Times'_ press was hard at work when Otto finally pushed his way through the last few feet of snow and in through the door, enjoying the blast of warmth and light that flooded through him. "Hello, Otto!" William called over the noise of the press. "How was the meeting?"

"Och, fine, zhank you." He shrugged off his black cloak and hung it over the chair of his desk. "How did ze pictures of ze fight turn out?"

"Wonderfully, thank you for that! Take a look." William passed him a new copy from the press. "Careful not to smudge it; the ink hasn't dried yet."

Otto scanned the first page. The headline, _FIFTY-MAN FRACAS AT HATCHET AND ENTRAIL, _ran across the top in bold black letters. Below was a snapshot in ink of the "enthusiastic" man breaking William's nose. Otto looked up. "Vhy did you use zis vone?"

"It's a good picture," said William with a grin, wincing at the pain as his nose wrinkled under the bandages.

"I only developed it as a joke."

"It was the best iconograph." William's smile softened. "Listen, I know you were, ah, uncomfortable about that–" He was speaking low enough now that the sound of the press masked their conversation from eavesdroppers, "–but please, don't worry about it."

"Villiam, I am sorry–"

"There's nothing to be sorry _about. _I _would_ like it if you would go back to looking me in the eyes, though."

Otto hesitated, and then relaxed and smiled. "Alright. Zhank you."

"I haven't done anything worth thanking," said William firmly. "Anyway, tell me! Was the harmonium girl there tonight?"

"Och, I told you, Villiam, she started seeing one of zose fellows from ze butcher's guild." Otto shrugged. "I'm not too disappointed. She had a veird laugh."

"A weird laugh?"

"Mm-hm. It vas zis strange little giggle noise, not a proper cackle. Zose little giggles give me ze shivers," Otto immitatted as much, "and not ze good kind."

"What about Saccharissa's?"

"Och, Saccharissa is a pretty girl, Villiam, but her laugh—it'd drive me crazy, I zhink, in tventy years or so. She's all yours."

William laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, and Otto smiled as he felt his nerves begin to dissipate. "Fair enough. Anyway, come and help me tie up the bundles. I don't want them getting dropped in the snow again; we lost three dollars to that last week."

The following hours passed quickly, and soon William and Sacharissa had gone home for the evening, and then the rest of the staff, and at last even Boddony and Goodmountain had shut down the press for the night and locked up the shop behind them. Darkness had long since swallowed the street beyond the windows, and snow whirled past the panes in tiny blurs, visible for half an instant before vanishing out into the dark. Otto hovered beside the press for a while, enjoying the warmth that still filled the empty shop, and then climbed down through the trap door to his room.

As vampire dwellings went, the room was spartanly simple, with an old wooden armoire for his cloak and tailcoats, a writing desk, a washbasin and (safety) razor, and, of course, a cushioned and lined coffin. His iconography equipment was sorted neatly on shelves which ran the length of the wall, on the desk there were a few personal effects; a picture of Sacharissa and William had been tacked up on the wall, while another, much older iconograph rested in a pewter frame face-up on the desk. Salamanders darted here and there on the walls and floor, hunting pests for their dinner, and Otto absently patted one on the head as he lit the candle. A warm golden glow spread over the room like sunrise.

In the way of a bachelor who has lived alone for many long years, Otto was quiet and methodical as he hung up his cloak and unbuttoned his vest. He washed his face, polished his fangs, changed into his nightshirt, and laid his clothes for the next morning over the back of the desk chair. At last, he turned to the iconograph.

The dead peered back out at him from the paper. After twenty years, Otto knew each of their faces intimately. Like an obscene Renaissance painting, the peasants and nobles, sinful highwaymen and clouds of virgins, accumulated around the central figure with their expressions of wrath and vengeance-lust. Otto looked briefly into the black empty sockets and gaping hole of screaming mouth that had, at that instant, comprised the state of his soul—or whatever it was he had, at any rate—and then returned to the faces of his victims. He studied them, each one. Then, carefully, tenderly, he placed the black ribbon atop the ancient dark-light iconograph.

"I promise," he vowed, "I vill not let you down."

Then, unperturbed, he lay down in his coffin, crossed his arms over his chest, and fell into a pleasant snooze. From the corners, from the shadows, the eyes watched over him with enduring patience. They, and Otto, knew that they would be there to meet him when it was all over.


End file.
